Picture Perfect Morning
by Naisumi
Summary: She looked down at her hands, and he could barely hear her next words: "I never meant to take him away from you..." [slash] [LanceScott, ScottLance] [(semi-)LanceKitty, KittyLance] [Kitty?, ?Kitty] ...Um. Yeah. It's not as weird as it sounds, I promise


Title: Picture Perfect Morning 

Part: One-shot 

Author: Naisumi 

Rating: PG-13 

Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Kitty/?, ?/Kitty; Kitty/Lance, Lance/Kitty 

Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

Spoilers: Nada. 

Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), futurefic, tremendous ANGST--OODLES and OODLES and TUBFULS of ANGST. 

  


  


Notes: Duuuude! What alternate universe is _this_, where Nai writes about Lance/Kitty!? Not Readme.txt, that's for sure. 

No, no, really, don't worry. Before you start checking me for a fever, I just have to say that this, of course, ends up Lance/Scott. (; Bet you were worried there for a second, hey? 

Anyway, yeah. This is around when Kitty is twenty-four and Scott and Lance are about twenty-seven or so. If you hate Kitty, pleeease don't read this. Because, you know, Kitty is a very mature adult in this, and there is a deep discussion between her and Scott. 

  


  


  


  


Additional Notes: The lyrics from the beginning of the fic and from the end are from "Tomorrow Comes" by Edie Brickell on her album _Picture Perfect Morning_, for which this fic is named. It's kind of odd, actually, because I was listening to her song "Olivia" the whole time instead of "Tomorrow Comes," because "Tomorrow Comes" is insanely cheerful and all, "Let's get on with life! Rock on!" 

Anyway, just in case you kids want to know what songs are...shibby-like. 

  


  


  


  


Additional-er Notes: Go check out **The Blind Fish Archive**! It's tons of fun, and we're always looking for submissions! The link is under the squeaky-spooky skeleton at www.geeky-pirate.net.   


  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  


  


  


  


-- 

  


  


  


  


  


  


_Don't feel bad _

The love that you had 

Just goes to prove that you are able 

I know you 

Got a terrible view 

I am familiar with the feeling 

But when tomorrow comes 

You'll be stepping out that door 

  


  


  


  


  


  


He'd stayed up talking on the phone until two, then woke up at eight and stood at the window and watched the morning peak the two trees in the municipal lot across the street. It took close to half an hour, as if the clouds dragged down the sun, weighed it to the horizon. After it appeared, it hung suspended and soggy in the drizzling rain and dimmer than the sky. He watched it for a few moments, then went to take a shower. 

Afterward, he padded to the kitchen, the tiles smooth and cold under his feet, and poured himself some orange juice. He stood next to the counter where he stacked envelopes and kept the stationary set, and listened to his messages on the answering machine. There were three; one from work, another from a friend, the last from his lawyer. The reason they'd left messages were simply this: He'd gotten fired, canceled on. Twice for the latter. The former for the third time in a month and a half. 

He deleted all of them, finished his orange juice, and sat down at the kitchen table with the cordless in his hand. It was shell-white, cool in his hand, and when he pushed the numbers in, they made small sounds, glowing green softly then fading back to a plastic clear. The dial tone hummed in his ear before a machine picked up, a quiet voice replacing static. 

He hung up. 

Shrugging on his jacket, he grabbed an umbrella, headed out and down the apartment stairs--nodded to the doorman, and stepped outside before he could catch the expression that might shatter the silence in his mind. The throng of gray outside calmed him, and he disappeared inside it, avoiding the puddles and shop windows that might reflect the black of his jacket, the gray of his gloves, the white of his shoes, the red of his glasses. He turned a little at a glimpse of familiarity, but turned away when he saw it was just a young girl, standing inside a store, her back to the world and an infant in her arms. 

Fifteen minutes and he arrived at the park. Everything shone dimensionless in the rain, and he noted briefly the veil of fog that seemed to weave itself into the air as tightly as smoke from thin lips, wondering if it rose from the heat of the trees or from the ground itself. It had been eighty yesterday, and the sun had made the now-matte sky seem translucent, a comfortable infinity. 

There was a lake, shining and dappled beyond the park benches and overhang of trees. He walked toward it, stopped at the edge, and watched the surface glow with mist, unsettlingly bright. The umbrella was soaked his gloves with cold and he gripped it all the more tightly, tilted it downward a little. A steady wind had started, and the trees scattered their leaves now, as if parting for the rain to sweep its steady arc of silver without interruption. 

He straightened once it stopped, watched a girl dressed in sweats jog by, the rain lighting her up like a ghost, turned back to the lake. It seemed to have become muted, as if its luminescence had been stolen by a breath. He stood still as his vision slowly blurred into a watery red from stray drops of rain, and he couldn't tell the grass from the lake from the sky anymore. Then he reached up shakily, wiped his glasses clean as best as he could, and walked back home. 

The front door had scratches on it; angular letters that he didn't bother to read. He unlocked it, walked in slowly, and closed it behind him without a sound. He hung up his jacket and umbrella to dry. He checked his answering machine again. 

One message. Jean. Coffee on Tuesday. 

He saved it and sat down on his couch, not bothering to return her call. The latest copy of Times was on the coffee table, and he looked at it for a while, staring through the glossy paper and glass table. The VCR blinked just off to the side, and he focused on it, watching the numbers disappear and reappear. He picked up the remote controller and reprogrammed it to read the time--eleven fifteen--and turned on the tv before muting it and standing up. 

There was a knock on the door and he briefly considered ignoring it. He sat down at the kitchen table again and watched it. It opened slowly, uncertainly. 

"Scott?" 

It was Kitty, her hair damp from outside, a Saran-wrapped tray in her hands. She had sunglasses on for some reason, and they tapered off at the tips--stylish. She took them off, tucked them in the pocket of her, and left the windbreaker on the coat rack by the door. She closed the door, came in, set the tray down on the table. 

"I called a few times last night, but the line was busy," she said. She seemed nervous. 

"I was talking to Jean," Scott said. 

She nodded a little, looked around almost helplessly, then sat down quietly across from him. 

"Have you heard from Rogue or Kurt or anyone lately?" she asked. 

"No," he said. A beat, then: "Would you like something to drink?" 

She shook her head. "I brought cookies." 

He looked at the tray. "Thanks. You didn't have to." 

"I had a lot left over," she said, then laughed. It was high-pitched and nervous. "From the party on Saturday, you know." 

Neither of them spoke for a moment. 

"We were hoping you would come," Kitty said quietly. 

"I was busy," he said. It was a lie. 

"Oh," she said. 

He looked down at her hands, the sparkle of a diamond catching his eye. He stared at it for a while, then said softly, 

"Congratulations." 

She laughed again, this time trailing off shakily. 

"Thanks," she said. She drew in a sharp breath, let it go, and reached up, her hand brushing her bangs away from her face, then fluttering uselessly at her ponytail, which was dripping with rainwater. 

"How are you?" she asked, even quieter now. 

"I'm fine," Scott said. He couldn't seem to look away from her ring. He tilted his head a little. Their eyes met. 

"When's the wedding?" he asked. 

"March," she said softly. "We'd really like it if you could come." 

"Of course," he said. 

"Scott," she said. Her voice sounded just as helpless as when she'd called him last week, asking him to please, please come. 

He'd wanted to, really. He'd wanted to say 'yes,' and sound happy for her. Instead, he'd heard his voice tell her gently that he couldn't. That he had to work late on Friday. That he was putting in extra hours that Saturday, too. 

Then he had paused and closed his eyes, when he heard someone's voice in the background. 

"Scott," she repeated. 

She held up her hand, her ring glinting as she pulled it off and put it down on the table, sliding it toward him. He stared at it, mute. 

"Take it," she said. 

"What're you talking about?" he asked. 

"It's off," she said. "I'm not getting married." 

"Kitty--" he said. He picked up the ring, fumbled with it between his fingers, and looked up at her when she stood up, the chair skidding a little with the motion. She crossed her arms, hugging herself, her hands pressed tight to either side of her waist. 

"Kitty, I can't let you do this," he said. 

She was quiet. 

"Kitty," he said again, and this time, she looked up at him quickly before looking away and staring at the tv, still moving and colorful even though there was no sound from it. 

"Scott, have you ever--felt that everything...everything's not the way it's supposed to be? Like nothing's turned out the way you expected it to?" she asked. 

"No," Scott said. "I wasn't expecting much." 

That was also a lie, and they both knew it. He'd expected a family by the age of twenty-six, a house with a white-picket fence, a trampoline in the backyard, an old-fashioned mailbox. He'd expected a steady job, a pet or two to keep him company when he didn't feel like talking to other people. He'd expected to be in a loving relationship with deep and never-ending passion. 

He'd expected the world and more. 

Leaning forward, he took her hand in his and she watched him with half-closed eyes, her arm limp as if she were dreaming, or thinking, or anywhere but there. He slipped the ring back on her finger, and she looked away from him then. 

"Listen," he said when it became clear she wasn't going to say anything. "You love him. I can't ask you to--to give that up." 

She stared at her feet and shifted. Her shoes squeaked on the floor, wet and rubber and shining in the dim light from the windows. They were dark and petite. 

"Nothing's different," he said. "You don't have to--" 

"Scott," she said softly. "I don't." 

He was looking at her ring again. 

"You have to," he said. "I want you to. I want you two to be--" 

"Scott," she said again, and he looked up. She was watching him, and her eyes were shining. She bit her lower lip, trapped it under her front teeth and worried it before letting it go. It was swollen and pink, and if he didn't know better, he would've thought that she was crying. 

But she wasn't. She was just watching him, her arms crossed again, swaying slightly, looking for all the world like she was about to fall asleep on her feet. 

"I don't love him," she said. 

"Yes, you do," he said immediately. "Otherwise--" 

"No, Scott," she said. 

He was quiet. 

"You can't break up because of me," he said then, his brows furrowing together, his shoulders hunching a little, as if something had been tightened to the brink of breaking inside him. "Not when--when you..." 

He trailed off, the explanations he had vanishing from his mouth as though they had merely been condensation. He glanced around, like he was expecting to see vapor, or maybe smoke. Instead, he just found the phone, which had begun to ring without him realizing it. 

Kitty scuffed her foot on the floor idly, looking at the phone as well. 

"I don't love him," she said, and he looked at her dumbly. 

Her voice was soft, and he nearly missed her words. They stared at each other, and he looked away first as the phone stopped trilling. His own voice murmured in the silence before there was a low tone and the crackle of static. Then, quietly: 

"Scott, I know you're there." 

Scott stared at the machine. 

"I told him," Kitty continued, as if nothing was happening. 

"Scott," Lance's voice repeated, sounding slightly uncertain now. 

"What do you mean," Scott said, "that you don't...?" 

"I don't," she repeated quietly, firmly. 

Lance cursed under his breath, and there was a loud, fumbling click as he hung up. 

Scott felt something quiver inside him, and he looked back at Kitty. She was frowning at him now, her nose wrinkled up the way it did when she was becoming impatient, when one of her students refused to see that she was trying very hard to teach them something extraordinarily important. 

"I don't _love_ him, Scott," she said, as if repeating it would make it easier to grasp. 

"You don't," he said numbly. 

She looked around again. 

"No," she said. "I just--I don't know. I don't know, I--I liked him _so_ much." 

She dropped her arms to her side, then crossed them again. 

"I liked him so much, and he liked me, too," she said vaguely. "And he made me feel grown up. I mean--" 

She smiled ironically and laughed softly. 

"I _am_ grown up," she said. "I'm twenty-four. I've got a job and _everything_, but..." 

She looked away, embarrassed. Her shoes squeaked again, as she took a step back, sitting down in the chair once more. She scooted it forward and folded her hands on the table, one of her bracelets clinking against the wood. 

"Sometimes," she said in a low voice, "sometimes, I feel like I'm still a little girl. It's like I never forgot what it was like back at the Institute. It's like I never left, you know? Like I was still back in my old room, in high school, with--" 

She stopped abruptly and dipped her head, her chin nearly touching her chest. She looked up again, and her eyes were bright. Scott watched her wordlessly, and wondered if she ever let herself cry. The stubborn set of her lips said that she didn't, but the trembling of her fingers clutched together tightly said that she did, at night, when the only sound was cars outside her windows and the silence of sleep. 

She reminded him of Jean, who never cried if she could help it, and always squared her shoulders when someone looked at her questioningly, wondering if she would. Kitty wasn't completely like Jean, though. He remembered her wanting to have fun--finishing her homework before everyone else and getting irritable when they wouldn't let her out on a weeknight, even though she _had_ studied and she _had_ prepared her notes for the next day of class. 

"You were so smart," Scott said, without realizing it. She looked at him, puzzled, and he coughed, looking down and then up again, unconsciously mimicking her movements just moments before. "You were always ahead of everyone." 

"Oh," she said. 

"I don't know," she looked around again, as if she didn't know what else to do. "I don't think I was." 

"You were," Scott said. "I remember. You were always the most advanced." 

She turned a little pink at the ears, and it was then that he noticed the faux pearl earrings that shone dimly there. They were simple, elegant. He looked at her, almost awed, and realized that she really _was_ twenty-four. 

"Kitty," he said. 

"I mean it, Scott," she said seriously. "I don't love him. I don't think I ever did." 

He was quiet. 

"Scott," she was looking at her hands solemnly. 

"I never meant to take him away from you," she said, and just then, her voice seemed too thin, too shaky. He looked at her, at the business jacket she had on, the knee-length skirt that went down straight and flared a little--flatteringly. She wore little makeup, held herself with perfect posture, and seemed every bit the astrophysics professor she was. 

But when she said that: 'I never meant to take him away from you'-- 

All he could see was her sitting on her bed, legs tucked Indian style, one hand on either knee, complaining that she _couldn't_ go to the Danger Room session because she'd just finished her nails, and look--do they _look_ dry to _you_? 

She had been confident and mature even then, but there had been a sense of insecurity that they all had that had made him want to protect her--protect all of them. He could see Logan keeping her close, too, like a surrogate child; but she hadn't needed any of their help. She'd been too capable, too self-reliant. She'd been ready for everything that no one else was ready for. 

She'd been ready to grow up. 

"You told him already," he said softly. 

"Yes," she said and paused to think before adding, "Yes, I did." 

"What did he say?" 

She slid the ring up and down her finger before finally gliding it off and putting it on the table between them with a quiet metallic sound. 

"He was angry," she said quietly. "Confused. I didn't mean to--" 

She bit her lip again, then seemed to notice she was doing it and pursed them, frowning a little. She seemed almost baffled. 

"He didn't know what to think," she said slowly. "At least, I don't--I don't _think_ so. He...well, I don't--he just..." 

She floundered for words, tipped her chin down again, then looked up, staring straight ahead out the window in the wall beyond Scott that cut a square of light. 

"He looked at me like I was a stranger," she said carefully and quietly, as if the wrong words might bring out the wrong emotions. "He said that if I just wanted to leave, I should've told him earlier. He said that I was the one who thought we could forget." 

She paused, then said almost thoughtfully, "He said, 'Fuck you,' and slammed the door." 

Scott winced at the word 'fuck,' having never heard her say it before. 

"I'm sorry," he said. "Kitty, I'm really--" 

"It's not your fault, Scott." She smiled. "You know, I always thought--I always thought that he hadn't ever gotten over you." 

He stared hard at the ring. The red before his eyes was blurring, but when he blinked, it was all clear again. 

"Why do you think that?" he said. 

"Because," she pulled the tray of cookies to her and peeled the Saran wrap back. It made sticky sounds, like crumpling flypaper. "Sometimes he'd say your name." 

He sat very still. She handed him a cookie, and he automatically took a bite out of it. It was chocolate chip, and it scattered crumbs on the table. 

"He'd..." Scott said. 

"He would," Kitty looked down at her own cookie, breaking off a piece of it with two fingers and popping it in her mouth. She didn't seem bothered by what they were discussing. 

"It was weird," she said. "He felt bad about it. I don't think he knew I heard, though." 

"When?" Scott said. 

She shrugged. "At night. When he wanted to ask me a question. Times like that." 

"I can't see him doing that," he said. 

She was quiet. 

"It's all shot to hell," she said then. "This might sound silly, but..." 

She broke off another piece of her cookie, chewed thoughtfully. 

"It was almost like--he locked up some part of himself after you two broke up. You know, like he could function and everything, but...there just wasn't any point to--to _try_ anymore." 

Scott didn't answer and just stared at the answering machine, the red light now flickering with Lance's message. 

"What happened anyway?" she asked softly. She was looking at him; he could feel the weight of her eyes. 

"It was my fault," he said. 

"I'm sure it wasn't," she said, smiling. "I'm sure that--" 

"No, it really was," he said, meeting her eyes. She stopped smiling. 

"I--I tried to figure it out," Scott said. "It didn't make sense why we were together, you know. So I tried to--_reason_ it through." 

He frowned, looking at his cookie as if he wasn't sure what to do with it. He took another bite, chewed slowly and feeling the chocolate stick to his teeth. He swiped his tongue over them, swallowed hard. 

"He wasn't doing anything with his life," he said. "I wasn't doing anything with mine either, even though God knows I tried to. We didn't have anything in common. We didn't even _like_ all the same things. And--well, it just stopped making sense for me." 

"It's not supposed to make sense," Kitty said softly, vaguely. She was looking out the window again. "It never makes sense." 

He chuckled, suddenly feeling resentful about everything that had happened. 

"I know," he said. "I was being stupid." 

She refocused on him, her expression almost startled. 

"No, you weren't," she said. "It's natural to want an explanation. That's what I spend all _my_ time doing, anyway." 

He smiled. "Looking at stars." 

"It's the future up there," she said. "Evolution, revolution, the solutions to the universe." 

She looked at him. 

"There's no formula for the solution to this planet, though," she said. "So far, all Venus and Pluto are to us is equations. Dozens of equations about how to triangulate distance. Words talking about, you know, supernovas--how many iotas of antimatter we can cram between Saturn and our moon." 

She finished her cookie and brushed her hands together before placing them both palms-down on the table, her thumbs tucked over the edge, and her fingers curved slightly. 

"No one has found a formula for love," she said. "People don't even know if love exists." 

"Animal attraction," Scott said dully. 

"Right," she said. "Look at it clinically, and none of it makes sense. Think about it in terms of reason, and--it just...turns to--_ash_." 

He was silent. 

"You seem like you've been through it before," he said. "You know--thinking about all this." 

Kitty smiled bitterly at him. 

"I have," she said. 

For a moment, he thought about asking her who it might have been. Then, he simply said, 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be," she said. "I'm more sorry than you are." 

"Let me empathize," he said, and when he did, she looked at him with her heart in her eyes, and he hesitated, thinking that maybe he had said the wrong thing. 

"Scott," she said, and her voice quavered a little. 

"Listen," he said, "I just--" 

"I can't stay for long," she said quietly. "I have to get back--I have a lunch meeting at twelve thirty." 

He followed her gaze to the VCR. Eleven fifty-five. 

"Of course," he said. "I understand." 

She stood up, smiled, and listlessly smoothed her hair with her hands. 

"Can I use your bathroom?" she asked. 

"Yeah, sure," he said. "It's right around the corner over there." 

She nodded and moved to go when the phone rang again. They both stared at it. 

"I'm going to leave now," she said softly. 

"Kitty," Scott said, turning to look at her. 

She stretched up on her tiptoes and leaned over to hug him. He hugged back, his arms squeezing her tight against him. 

"It's okay," she said, her lips moving against his neck, smooth and cool from lipgloss. She smelled like strawberries, and he wished he could hug her longer and tell her to go look for whoever she'd loved. They parted, though, and he looked at her seriously. 

"You should go talk to them," he said. 

She smiled shakily. 

"I don't think I can," she said. 

"I'll make you a deal, then," Scott said. "I'll make everything better here, if you'll make everything better there." 

"That's rather philosophical," she said, grinning. "Now and then, here and there. That's rather..." 

She trailed off, then smiled again at him. 

"Deal," she said. "I'd pinky-swear, but your machine's about to pick it up again." 

"Oh--" Scott turned, distracted, and she laughed. 

"I'll see you later," she said. 

"Bye," he said as she slipped out the front door. She waved at him, and then he said softly, 

"Thanks." 

Her smile was even brighter as she closed the door, and he was reminded of the rain misting around the girl in the park so that she lit up. 

There was a click and he heard his answering-machine message begin behind him, and he turned sharply, muttering, "_Shit_," before fumbling with the phone and saying hurriedly, 

"Hello?" 

There was silence, then the sound of someone exhaling slowly. 

"Summers?" 

Scott smiled and pressed his forehead to the window, feeling the cool glass against his skin. 

"Lance," he said. "How are you?" 

Silence again, then: "You bastard. She told you, didn't she?" 

"Yeah," Scott looked outside, watching the grass glimmer brightly in the rain. The downpour had faded into a light drizzle, and it cast a silver veil over everything that made the ground seem brighter than the sky. "She was just here." 

"Oh." 

Scott hesitated, then said slowly, "I missed you." 

Lance didn't say anything for a moment, and he felt like something inside him was building to a boil. 

Then he heard a quiet, "Yeah? You don't say..." 

Scott smiled. He walked over to the couch, picked up the tv controller and switched off the blur of colors on the screen before sitting down on the couch, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. 

"I do," he said. 

"That's funny," Lance said. "Because I do, too." 

Scott closed his eyes, smiled, and hoped that Kitty would have time to plan a reunion soon. After all-- 

It seemed like everything was going to be just fine. 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


_Not too far _

From where you are 

Red leaves are falling from Sebastian 

Every day 

They fall away 

Bright green is coming back in fashion... 

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~fin~ 


End file.
